


S7 E8 "The Undecideds"

by kcat1971



Series: Josh & Donna Post Episode Challenge [67]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcat1971/pseuds/kcat1971
Summary: Eventually you have to choose.
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Donna Moss
Series: Josh & Donna Post Episode Challenge [67]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1087419
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	S7 E8 "The Undecideds"

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime between S7 E8 "the Undecideds" and S7 E9 "the Wedding."

Eventually, Santos and Josh finish the postmortem of the days’ events and the candidate gets up from the table and heads towards his room to call his wife even though it’s too late to wish the kids goodnight. Then he’ll climb into bed, clear his mind of the day the best he can and try to get some sleep, because part of his job is to look as well rested and unaffected by developments as possible.

His campaign manager, on the other hand, has no such requirement, and also no wife or children. He’s married to his job. Not this job in particular, but to the work. To politics. To a lifestyle fueled by adrenaline and caffeine and hope and false promises.

So he makes his way to the hotel war room, because that’s all there is for him. Sometimes at the end of a battle there are some rewards. An office, a name plate, a staff, a trusted assistant. But if he’s honest with himself, probably not this time.

This time the battle probably ends with isolation, wound-licking, and self-reflection. Then another battle. Or maybe not. But if there isn’t another battle, what else would there be?

The war room door is slightly ajar, which means someone else is probably working too, so he gives it a small shove with one finger. He’s too tired for a grand entrance. Too tired for a false bravado. Too tired for the persona he’s cultivated.

Unless it’s absolutely necessary. So if he can just peek in, without announcing his presence, he can decide what has to be done next. He can have just one more moment to just be.

As the door swings open he sees that it’s her. Her hair is up in some sort of a mess on the top of her head, held in place by a pencil. She’s still wearing her suit from earlier, but the jacket is hanging over the back of the chair and her blouse is untucked. The heels that make her taller than him are laying cockeyed on the floor. Her feet probably hurt.

She’s probably got a headache too, from the way she’s rubbing her temple with her fingers.

But she’s feverishly working. Trying to accomplish something. To earn her place at the table. To prove her worth. To show everyone that she’ll give 100% of herself to the cause.

Maybe he was a good teacher after all. Maybe not.

“Oh, Donna,” he sighs, “what am I going to do with you?”

Somehow, inexplicably, because really, he didn’t even say that aloud, she hears him and turns to look at him.

He sees a flash of vulnerability in her eyes before they close briefly and she turns back to her work.

And he’s tempted, oh so tempted, to turn and walk away. To leave her to sort it out on her own. To leave her like she’s left him all those times, wondering what just happened and if this is really how they end.

But his feet propel him forward, before his brain can really decide. His feet, and probably his heart. His raw, bleeding, still broken heart.

He pulls out a chair and sits next to her, because he’s really too tired to stand. And maybe because his brain is still functional enough to know that towering over her isn’t going to help anything either. 

Ten things to say flit through his mind. A random greeting. A question about work. A comment about how glad he is that she’s finally on board. A plea to just stop reading and look at him. 

But nothing comes out, because he has no idea what to say. And he’s a little worried that if he opens his mouth every single thought he’s ever had about her is going to spill out, and once those words are said, they can never be contained again. They’ll just be out there.

And what if she hates him?

What if she hates him when he’s never loved anyone the way he loves her.

So the seconds tick by. A full sixty of them, though it seems like a million times more than that.

And then she stops and looks at him. And the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. And apparently it’s all he needs.

“I’m sorry.”

She looks surprised.

Not that he said them. Because she’s heard him say those words before. He’s a master politician and a master politician knows sometimes those words are necessary.

It’s the way he says them. Soft. Gentle. Like a caress. Like she can almost feel his hand gliding down from the top of her head, smoothing her hair. The way he sometimes did, when they worked late at night, partners against the evil forces of the world.

It’s the look in his eyes. The self recrimination. The worry that it’s too late. That this time he won’t be able to fix it. And that if he doesn’t it’ll break him.

It’s the way his hand twitches. Like he’s holding back. Like he wants to reach out but he’s not sure.

What surprises her most is her own response. For the first time in a long time she isn’t irritated by his words. She doesn’t want to go to war with him. She doesn’t want to prove a point or to win a round.

“For what?” Her quiet answer is a touch resigned but tinged with genuine curiosity. There is so much water under the bridge, it’s not obvious why he’s apologizing..

It could be for the fight in the hotel room. It could be for not hiring her after the convention. Or it could be for a hundred little things. 

Water under the bridge. So much water. Almost a decade of it, rushing under their feet while they stared at it, assuming that they’d always be above it. Never really letting themselves think about what it would be like to get washed away in it.

“For all of it. For not listening well enough. For talking too much. For not giving you enough responsibility. For giving you too much. But mostly, I’m sorry for not making sure that you knew how right you were. I found you valuable. I found you so valuable, now I don’t know how to live without you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that.”

When he’s done her eyes are glistening. And he’s sure that she can hear how loud his heart is beating.

She stretches her fingers out so the tips are just grazing his as they rest on the table.

“You just did. So what's next?”


End file.
